CHAPTER SEVEN

Jake woke with a thundering headache as a shaft of light from the new dawn shone through the gap in the cheap curtains. His tongue felt as though it was stuck to the roof of his mouth and he felt slightly nauseated. He was lying face down on the bed beside the form of a girl whose bosom gently rose and fell mere inches from his face.

"Rosalind," he said softly, more to himself than to her, as he raised his head to gather his senses. He pushed himself up from the bed, stretching and working his shoulders to ease his aching muscles.

At the sound of her name, Rosalind awoke with a start. "Wh . . . what happened?" she asked in some confusion. "Weren’t we drinking –?"

Jake had picked up the errant glass that had rolled across the floor and stood sniffing it. "We were drinking drugged brandy," he replied, his jaw setting in a look of grim determination. "And I am going to find out who was responsible."

Rosalind’s eyes opened wide with alarm. "Not Nantan?"

Jake shook his head. "He delivered it, but it was sent up by your boss, Carmen de Menendez."

Rosalind gave an emphatic shake of her head. "Miss Carmen wouldn’t do anything like that."

Jake poured water from the washing pitcher into the large porcelain bowl on the dressing stand then sluiced it over his face. He sniffed the pitcher to ensure that it too was not drugged and then took a hefty swig to clean his mouth.

"I reckon that at this moment the main question is, why were we drugged?"

"You don’t think it could have been those two men?"

"That is possible, Rosalind," Jake replied. He felt concerned for her, since she had clearly had a bad shock the night before. "Now you can see why I think you need to get away from this way of life. It's not healthy."

Rosalind bit her lower lip. "But I can't get away from it. I have no money."

"I told you that I would stake you," he returned. He pulled out a wad of notes from his back pocket and peeled a number off. "This should be enough to buy a train ticket for as far as you want to go. I have some business to sort out first, then I’ll come back later today and put you on a train myself."

Rosalind stared incredulously at the money. "You’ll do that for me? But I have not done anything for you."

Jake gave her a wry smile. "Rosalind, I think it's time you showed some faith in the human race. Not everyone you meet is going to want something from you. I want you to look at this money as your second chance. Take it."

And he reached for the door while Rosalind continued to stare in disbelief at the money. "I will be ready, Jake."

He nodded then left.

"I will never know how to thank you, Jake Scudder," Rosalind whispered as she stared at the closed door.

* * *

Elly had woken during the night with a painful jaw and a splitting headache, from when her head had hit the bedroom floor and snuffed out her consciousness. For a moment she could not understand why her head was hanging down with her arms dangling on each side. Then she realized that she was in motion, being jolted up and down. She was unable to move either her hands or her feet and she realized that she had been slung over Trixie’s saddle, and that her hands and feet were tied and a linking loop was knotted under Trixie’s belly.

"Gah!" she exclaimed angrily. "Who the hell did this?"

She was greeted by a chorus of laughter from what she perceived to be three men riding alongside her.

"The girl can cuss," said one voice.

"Maybe we got ourselves a whore and not a lady," sneered another.

"Sure isn’t going to matter which, anyhow," growled a third.

Elly felt a sharp pain on her bottom, accompanied by the sound of a smack from the flat of the third voice’s hand. Then the three men guffawed again.

"You will pay for that – all three of you!" Elly hissed defiantly. "What do you want? Money?"

"Maybe a little more than money," returned the third voice.

"You wouldn’t dare!" Elly snapped, although she felt far less sure of herself than she sounded.

"We’ll see," said the first voice. "It will be sun-up soon. Time for my two friends here to have a bit of a rest and maybe feed you some breakfast. As for me – I will see you after I attend to some business – in maybe a day or so."

The horses had all stopped and Elly heard the men whispering to one another as the sun began to rise over the cactus and red-boulder strewn dessert. She strained her ears to hear what was being said.

"Take her to the cabin to the west of Rattlesnake Pass," said the leader. "Wait a day then bring her along and meet me. Just remember what I told you, and don’t let anyone get near you. If they do – kill them!"

Raising her head as much as she was able, Elly saw the leader spur his horse into what she recognized to be Rattlesnake Pass.

"Come on then, lady," said the second voice. "I don’t know about you, but I could sure eat some breakfast – first!"

* * *

Jake mounted the steps of the Silver City Classic Hotel three at a time and tapped on Elly’s door. He waited for a few seconds, which he thought was respectful, and then knocked again, louder this time. "Elly! Elly, I need to talk to you," he called through the door.

He heard somebody grumble from a neighboring room, but heard not a stir from Elly’s room. He tried the handle and found it locked.

"What is the noise all about?" came a voice from behind him, and he spun around, his hand hovering above the handle of his Remington.

Joe Holland, the lame night-porter, disheveled and bleary-eyed from half a bottle of rye whiskey staggered back a pace with his hands above his head. "Don’t shoot, mister. I’m just the night porter." Then he blinked and recognized Jake from the evening before. "That isn’t your room, Mr. Scudder. Your room is down the hall. That is the lady’s room." And as soon as he said it a lascivious look flashed across his face.

Jake spied the hotel master key dangling from his belt. "I know that, you darned fool!" he said, impatiently. "I have a bad feeling – get that door open before I break it in!"

"I can’t," Holland replied. "Every guest’s room is private, so long as they have paid. It’s hotel policy."

Jake’s hand curled over the handle of the Remington. "I just changed hotel policy. Now open that door. Pronto!"

Joe Holland’s head bobbed up and down with alacrity as he tremulously shoved the key in the lock and opened the door with as much haste as he could muster.

"S-sorry, ma’am. I was made to –" he mumbled as he stood at the door. "Why, it's empty!" he gasped. "She's gone, Mr. Scudder."

"I can see that for myself," replied Jake, irritably, entering the room and looking around. "All her things are here." Then he spied a red patch on the floor and bent to examine it. "Blood!"

His eyes came up and fixed accusingly on Joe Holland. "How come you let a guest get kidnapped?"

"K-kidnapped? No way, Mr. Scudder. I was down there all evening. Except for when I got that – "

Jake grabbed his shirt front and pulled him close and thundered, "When you got – what?"

Joe Holland gulped. "The message! I got a m-message to go over to the Busted Flush to see the sheriff."

"What did he want?" Jake asked in exasperation.

"N-nothing, Mr. Scudder. He . . . he wasn’t there, after all."

A look of worry crept over Jake’s brow. "Who brought you this message?"

"An Apache kid. Seen him around a lot, but I don’t know his name. He does all kinds of odd jobs for folk."

Jake shook his head. "I don’t suppose I can get hold of this sheriff of yours?"

"At this time of the morning? Not a chance, mister."

Without another word Jake left the hotel and went straight to the livery stable. He had little difficulty in rousing the hostler, a middle-aged fellow who had sworn the oath against drinking.

"Where is Miss Horrocks’ cowpony?" Jake asked, after informing him of his suspicions.

"A guy with a bandaged-up ear took it out last night. He said he was taking her out to meet someone who knew something about her lost herd. The whole town has been buzzing about it. I thought it was all above board."

"I don’t suppose you know where they were headed?"

The hostler shook his head.

Jake frowned and then asked the man to get his stallion ready. His best guess was that whoever had taken Elly wouldn’t be heading north. Some instinct told him that they would be heading south, towards Rattlesnake Pass. Hurriedly he mounted the stallion, then he tossed a dollar to the hostler. With luck he reckoned that he would be able to pick up the trail outside town. Elly’s cow pony, Trixie, had pretty distinctive horseshoes – he hoped that he would find them.

* * *

Rosalind had washed and was applying make-up at her dressing table when there came a soft tap on the door. Despite herself she stiffened as images of the men who attacked her and Scudder flashed before her mind’s eye.

"It’s okay, Rosalind, it is only me," came Carmen de Menendez’s lilting voice.

Rosalind heaved a sigh of relief and then crossed the room to let her employer in.

Concern was written all over Carmen de Menedez’s face. "I just wanted to see that you were all right, Rosalind. I saw that Jake Scudder fellow leave as if his tail were on fire."

Rosalind laughed girlishly. "He was a perfect gentleman, Miss Carmen. But he was worried about his lady friend. That’s why he took off like that."

Then she realized that she had left the wad of money – an excessive amount of money for one night – lying on her bedside table. And she was sure that the saloon owner had seen it too.

"A generous man," said Carmen de Menendez, with a humorless smile, as if divining Rosalind’s thoughts.

"I . . . I – " began Rosalind.

"You what?" asked Carmen de Menendez, reaching out and stroking Rosalind’s hair. "Tell me what, my dear."

Suddenly, Rosalind felt pain as Carmen de Menendez grabbed her hair and cruelly yanked her head backwards. "Tell me, you little bitch!" she hissed. "Why did he give you so much money? What did you tell him?"

"N-nothing, Miss Carmen. I swear. Nothing!" Her eyes were wide with terror as she saw the reflection in the dressing table mirror of her with her head pulled back and her throat exposed, and Miss Carmen staring at her with a look of stark animal fury.

"That is just as well," the saloon owner said between grated teeth, as she tightened her grip on Rosalind’s hair.

A scream threatened to erupt from Rosalind’s lips as she saw Carmen de Menendez reach across the dressing table and pick up her long scissors.

"No! No, Miss Carmen, please," she begged. "Don’t cut my hair, please."

A smile that was almost reptilian marred the beautiful saloon owner’s face, and she shook her head. "What made you think I would touch your hair, my dear?"

Again the scream threatened to erupt from Rosalind’s lips as she saw the flash of steel in the mirror. But a moment later blood splattered the mirror, blotting out the image of her pitifully silent, terrible death.

* * *

It was late morning by the time Jake Scudder confirmed in his own mind that the trail he was following was indeed leading towards Rattlesnake Pass. There were three horses and Elly’s cow pony, and they were clearly following a back trail, rather than the main way towards the Pintos.

"Those devils better not have harmed a hair on her head," he mused to the back of the stallion’s head. Then he cursed himself for being caught out by that drugged brandy. "Maybe I should have waited and gotten that no-account sheriff and his deputy to come, too. Three of these rustling hombres may be hard to handle."

He urged the stallion onward towards the pass, trying hard to pick the tracks of the kidnappers from the churned up floor of the pass, which still bore the evidence of the stampede of three days before.

Then behind him he heard the cadence of rapidly approaching hooves and the whooping and shouting of a group of men. The noise seemed typical of a group under the influence of more than a little tonsil paint. Jake wheeled the stallion around and waited for them to turn the last bend. He rested his hands on the pommel of his Texas rig as he recognized two of the men – the Silver City sheriff and his deputy. Both of them were swaying slightly, as were another three riders, while another rode calmly and impassively by their side. This man he also recognized – it was the young Apache, Nantan.

"You look like a posse," Jake said, a few moments later when they had all reined to a halt in front of him. "I reckon somebody must have told you about the jaspers kidnapping the girl."

Sheriff Slim Parfitt turned his head and very deliberately spat at a boulder. "Kidnappers, you say?" He looked at the others and laughed.

To Jake’s consternation the others, except for the irritatingly impassive Nantan, whom he intended having words with, all burst out laughing.

"Oh, we are an official posse, right enough," said the sheriff. "But we ain’t after any kidnappers." He nodded nonchalantly to the others. "No, sir. We are after a murdering dog called Scudder!"

Jake was taken entirely by surprise. Before he realized it, he was covered by five guns.

"Shuck your weapons or die in the saddle!" barked the sheriff. And as Jake tossed his gun and his Winchester to the ground the sheriff urged his horse close and suddenly lashed out with his gun, catching Jake a raking blow across the face. "And that’s just something for resisting arrest."

Jake shook his head and dabbed his broken lip with the back of his hand. "What are you talking about? Arrest for what?"

"For the murder of that little saloon girl that I saw you with last night. An ugly mess you made of her with her own scissors."

"Let’s string him up now, sheriff," said Deputy Hank Bott.

"Or how about we shoot him here like a dog?" suggested a barrel-chested man with a straggly moustache.

A tall, lanky man in an ill-fitting Stetson produced a whiskey bottle from his saddlebag. He uncorked it, took a swig, then handed it to his neighbor. "Or then again we could set him loose and have some sport."

His neighbor, a man with dirty corn hair and a patch over one eye, grunted. "Good idea! What say we give him ten minutes start?"

Jake said nothing, realizing that anything he did say would only inflame the situation and probably lead to his death all the sooner. He needed to stay alive, and that meant that he needed to stay quiet and think.

Sheriff Parfitt nodded and took the whiskey bottle. "The idea has merit, Brooster. I reckon I could do with a coffee, so we could give him as long as that. Then we either shoot him or string him up, depending on whether or not we find a tree or cactus handy."

"Haven’t you forgotten something, Sheriff?" Jake asked as the lawman slaked his whiskey thirst. "I haven’t been formally arrested, far less had a trial of any sort. And I assure you that I haven’t killed anyone - especially not a woman."

Sheriff Parfitt’s hand tightened on his gun. "You are a liar, Scudder. I saw that poor girl’s body. We are all the trial you are gonna get, you murdering dog."

Nantan had moved between the sheriff and his deputy. He tugged the sheriff’s sleeve then leaned over and whispered in his ear. After a moment the sheriff roared with laughter as he clapped the young Apache on the back. "Damn! Nantan, you have more uses than a whole cathouse of women. You get going and we’ll see to this feller."

As Nantan dismounted and then disappeared up into the rocks the sheriff gestured with his gun for Jake to dismount. Then he reached into his saddle bag and drew out a short shovel, which he tossed at Jake’s feet.

"Pick it up, Scudder, and start walking. You are going to have some digging to do."